Hand to Mouth

misadventures in eating

It’s been less than 24 hours and I’m already hungry.

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As much as I am glad to be back at home, I already miss the food. I spent a lot of time in New York eating, and — less than a day later — feeling the sting of not having Kalyustan’s on my way home from work and Bagel & Schmear on the way to the subway. I’m going to miss every bodega between Park and 2nd except for the Halal Deli at 28th, because (a) they never had flowers and (b) nothing in their refrigerators were actually refrigerated. My last three days in the city were unendingly gluttonous, lunches at Burritoville in Midtown and dinners at The Farm at Adderly, where they make some of the best french fries and vegetable pave I’ve ever tasted, but have made some truly regrettable decisions regarding their cheese plate. (Yes, Gary the owner, you read that correctly: for all I loved your Farmer John burger on the English muffin (so clever) and your homemade pickles and your intoxicatingly good Swiss Chard, bok choy mixture beneath the vegetable pave, never, never serve the cheese which earned the nickname “baby diaper” again.) I ate, in Palisades Park in New Jersey an astonishingly huge meal of Korean bulgolgi, which was great until my gastrointestinal system decided to go on strike in frustration. And almost every weekend, I could be located at the Evergreen Shanghai Restaurant where I always ordered the same four things and always loved it without fail in that faintly disturbing way that fairly reeked of zealotry usually engaged by evangelical Christians or people who are really big jetBlu fans. New York is justly called a U.S. mecca for domestically-bound foodies, and I’m sad to be away from food gods again, south of the Mason-Dixon.

Total withdrawal can be averted of course with the consideration that the South opens doors for food that’s unreasonably insulted by New York eateries: barbeque, Brunswick stew, hush puppies — the kind that are still hot and popping with the lard in which they were deep fried, pulled-pork barbeque, and many other celebrations of the humble pig and its not so humble spareribs.

Obviously, this would work better if I wasn’t sitting on my couch in my pjs drinking Diet Coke with Lime, but it’s one of those step-processes. Mourn the baba ganoush first — find the roasted pig later.


Written by lshen

August 17, 2006 at 2:31 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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